


Dumb Runaway Kids

by 27dragons



Series: Murderers and Thieves [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Edging, Finger Sucking, First Time, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light BDSM, M/M, PWP, Steve Rogers is a Troll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-02-20 16:04:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2434793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/27dragons/pseuds/27dragons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Continued from <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2344808/chapters/5170391">Chapter 2</a> of "Turnabout". (Chapter 1 here is a duplicate of Chapter 2 there; if you've already read that, you can skip to Chapter 2.) This is strictly PWP, no actual plot for the M&T 'verse, so you can safely skip it if you don't 'ship it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Sara](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sara_holmes/pseuds/sara_holmes) bullied me into writing this, but then she beta'd it and helped me pick the title, so I guess it works out as even, right?

"This is a nice place," Clint said, sliding into the booth across from Steve. It was, too: the floors and tables were clean, the clientele quiet and smartly-dressed, the dim lighting was to enhance the mood rather than to cover sins, and the pool tables in the back were in excellent repair.

"I've only been here once or twice before," Steve admitted. "Tony recommended it, though. He's pretty good about that kind of thing."

Before Clint could respond, the server came around to deliver a pint for Steve and take Clint's order. "My treat," Steve reminded him, but Clint shrugged and ordered what he always ordered in any half-decent bar, which was the bartender's recommendation from whatever they had on tap.

"You know I'd have been good with a fresh six-pack in the fridge at home, right?" Clint said, grinning.

Steve laughed. "Hardly in the spirit, though." He sipped his own beer and made a pleasantly-surprised face. "This one isn't half-bad. The last microbrew I tried was terrible. An aftertaste like overripe bananas."

Clint pulled a rueful face. "I have drunk a lot of terrible brew," he admitted, "but banana-beer is not on my list."

Steve took another sip, as if to wash away the banana memory. "What's the worst beer you've had?" he challenged.

Clint had to think about that for a bit. "Probably... Okay, when I was learning to drink beer -- around sixteen, I guess? -- generic beer was still a thing."

"It sounds terrible already."

"Well, mostly it was just whatever was left from whenever some factory had met quota for the month. The trick, on any given night, was to buy just one can and drink it in the parking lot to see if it was any good. Mostly it was just the usual watery crap, but once in a while one of the good places would package generic, and then we'd go in and buy the out the lot. Or at least, as much of it as we could afford. But never knowing what you were going to get until you took that first sip made the bad stuff all the worse."

Steve chuckled knowingly. The server returned with Clint's pint, and Steve started a story from when he and Bucky had been kids -- actual kids, smack in the middle of Prohibition -- and had gotten accidently tangled up into a bootlegger's delivery operation.

Clint was nearly to the end of his second glass, in the middle of one of his better stories about his days as a carny trick-shot, when a woman walked past, beautiful enough to actually shut his brain down for a second, flawless skin and smoky eyes and generous curves. She met his gaze with a knowing smile and continued past them on her way to the pool tables.

He blinked his brain back online and resisted the urge to turn around. "Did you _see_ that?" he said. "Wow. New York has a lot of gorgeous people, but even for New York, she was _stunning_."

Steve gave him a flat, unamused look.

Clint held up his hands in surrender. "No, I swear," he backpedaled, "I have nothing to do with Nat's stupid conspiracy to hook you up! I promise, I wasn't trying to--"

"I'm a little out of practice," Steve said. Was that a blush climbing the back of Steve's neck and curling around his ears? Maybe he was imagining it; the light was dim and Steve's expression hadn't changed at all. "But I'm fairly sure it's still bad manners to make eyes at someone other than your date."

Clint nearly spit out his mouthful of beer. And then he nearly choked on it. In an instant, Steve was beside him, pounding him on the back and then laughing as Clint finally managed to swallow the damn beer and cough around that scratchy feeling in his throat.

"You okay?" Steve asked, though his grin suggested he already knew Clint was fine.

"Yeah, yeah," Clint rasped. He took another sip to settle his throat. "Christ. How did you even manage to say that with a straight face?"

"Because it's true," Steve said, all earnest eyes and -- Clint's eyes _weren't_ playing tricks on him, because that blush was all the way up to Steve's eyebrows now.

"Wait. This really is a date?"

Steve slid back into his own seat. "That was the idea, yes." His eyebrows raised. "Unless you're not interested, of course, in which case--"

"I didn't say that," Clint said quickly. "Just... give me a minute to adjust, here."

"Is it that big of an adjustment? I thought we were having a nice time."

"Yeah," Clint shot back, "but I didn't-- Wait. Is this something you're doing to fuck with Nat?"

Steve laughed. "No, but now I wish I'd thought of it earlier. Sam probably would've helped me out and then she would've stopped trying to set me up a _year_ ago."

"No, she wouldn't. She'd just have started trying to set you up with guys, too." Clint finished his beer and pushed the glass toward the edge of the table where the server would see it. He leaned on his hand and looked at Steve closely. "So... bi, then?"

Steve nodded, and the blush that had been starting to recede climbed upward again.

"Huh. Even Nat thinks you're straight, and she is hard to fool."

"Wasn't trying to fool anyone," Steve said. He leaned forward, serious and honest. "Until pretty recently, I wasn't in a good place for dating. Not mentally or emotionally. It just wouldn't have been fair. But I've been... looking around, for the last few months. It feels like I'm... waking up."

"Yeah?" Clint smiled. "That's a good thing."

"It feels good," Steve agreed, relaxing a little.

Clint watched the way Steve's eyes flicked from Clint's eyes to his mouth to his hands. "So when were you going to let me know that this was a date?"

"Thought you already knew," Steve said sheepishly. "I was too subtle, I guess. So you'd probably have been really surprised when I tried for a kiss, then."

Clint gasped in mock outrage. "On the first date? Steve Rogers, you _cad_. What kind of girl do you take me for?"

Steve snorted. "What's wrong with kissing? You got a problem with kissing, Clint?" His tone was offended, but the quirk of his mouth and the spark in his eyes were... something different.

Something warm. Something challenging.

Something that Clint thought he might like to see again.

So he let his gaze drift down to Steve's lips, held it long enough for Steve to notice, and looked back into those sky-blue eyes. "Nope," he said. "No problems with kissing at all."


	2. Chapter 2

Steve tasted like the beer he'd been drinking, hoppy and just a little bitter.

Clint wondered briefly if that's the same bitter tinge Steve's come would have if Clint dropped to his knees right now and sucked Steve off. The thought sent an electric thrill down Clint's spine.

He didn't do it, though. He was fairly certain that he wouldn't scare Steve away with anything so mundane -- it was Steve, after all, who had pulled Clint into this alley and pushed him up against the wall -- but Clint enjoyed the anticipation nearly as much as he appreciated the act itself, and it would be nothing short of criminal to rush _this_.

That decision was entirely justified in the next instant, because Clint bit down on Steve's bottom lip, and Steve let out a noise that was half-whine and half-moan and half-sigh -- and yeah, that was three halves, but this was _one hell of a noise_. Clint would _not_ have wanted to miss that noise.

Nor would he have wanted to miss the way Steve chased him when he drew back for a breath. Or the way Steve's hands, cupped around the backs of Clint's arms as gently as if they were holding baby chicks, clenched when Clint slid his knee between Steve's thighs. They didn't squeeze hard enough or long enough to bruise, but it was enough to remind Clint exactly how strong Steve was -- he had seen Steve bend _steel_ with those hands -- and to add another item to Clint's swiftly-expanding checklist: he was going to get Steve to _forget_ about that strength, if only for a few seconds.

Even the thought made another hot surge flood Clint's cock. "Jesus," he groaned, and knocked his forehead against Steve's, gasping in the warm air that Steve had just panted out.

Steve laughed, a little breathless, and _that_ was a good sound for Steve, too. Clint rarely heard Steve out of breath outside of combat. "We maybe want to take this party somewhere a little more private," Steve rasped. He leaned in close again, grinding his hips against Clint's thigh and raking his tongue down Clint's neck.

"Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting, Captain Rogers?" Clint asked, pretending shock. "On the first date? What would your sainted mother say?"

"You still playing that broken old record?" Steve demanded, not playing along at all. "We've been living and working together for a couple of years now; I figured we didn't really need to wade through the get-to-know-you stuff so much. If you want to tell me no, just say so. Otherwise--"

Clint tipped his head back to give Steve easier access to his neck and damn near brained himself on the wall. "Not saying no," he said quickly. "Nope, I may be a dumb hick but I ain't _that_ dumb."

Steve snorted. "If I thought you were dumb, we wouldn't be here. We going back to the Tower now, or what?"

"You," Clint felt obliged to point out, "are the one pinning me in. We can't go anywhere until you take a step back."

Steve paused, blinking rapidly as if he hadn't realized that, and looked down at himself. His hips were pressing Clint's against the wall. One hand was still curled around Clint's arm, and the other palm was flat against the wall by Clint's ear. That blush reappeared, then, climbing Steve's neck and curling its way around his ears. "Oh," he said. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

How could a man built like Steve be so god damn _adorable_?

Steve stepped back, rubbing at his neck with the hand that had been planted on the wall. The hand on Clint's arm slid down, lacing their fingers together as he led the way back out toward the street. Which was... huh.

Steve caught him looking. "Is this okay? If you're not comfortable with--"

"No, it's fine," Clint interrupted. "It just wasn't..." He lifted his head, narrowed his eyes, and executed a perimeter check. No reporters or paparazzi in sight, for a change. Almost every passerby would have a cell with a camera, of course, but -- well, it was late, and they were both in civilian clothes. "I hate to break the mood," he said cautiously, "but, well, I'm guessing you'd prefer I ask straight out than try to dance around it in euphemisms."

"Yes, always," Steve said. "What's on your mind?"

"I'm kind of wondering what this is. I mean, what you're looking for. Is this a one-time thing? Or, like, a few weeks so you can get a handle on, you know, sex in the twenty-first century. Or friends-with-benefits? Though I admit, that one doesn't really seem like your style." Steve was making that face again. The flat, almost irritable face he'd been making back in the bar, before Clint had realized they were on a date in the first place.

"What?" Clint asked, suddenly on the defensive. "I'm not putting any pressure on you, here, I'm just trying to manage my own expectations."

Steve's eyebrow rose. "I'm really, _really_ certain that you are aware that this was a date. We had that conversation already."

"I got that," Clint said. "Loud and clear. That precise word was used. And then there was kissing. The kissing was pretty hard to miss. Also, pretty nice."

"Maybe the word's changed meaning since my time," Steve allowed. "Used to be, when folks dated, it was..." He trailed off, brow knitting as he chose his words. "...it was with romance in mind, usually. With the intent to at least consider the possibility of something more, um, long-term."

Meeting Steve's clear, earnest eyes, Clint forgot to breathe until the ache in his lungs reminded him. He dragged air in, and looked down at their clasped hands and twined fingers.

With romance in mind.

With _intent_.

"Clint? You okay?"

"I'm okay," Clint answered automatically. "I just don't understand. You could have anyone."

Steve sighed, and squeezed Clint's hand a little tighter. "You really don't-- You have any idea how many dates Nat's tried to fix me up on, the last year or two?"

Clint smirked, a touch bitterly. "Hundreds?"

Steve didn't laugh out loud, but his lips curved, just slightly, before he turned serious. "Not a one of them was you." He bumped Clint's shoulder with his own. "Not a one of them had your smile. Or your laugh, or your--"

"Arms?" Clint guessed, because he wasn't _that_ dumb. He knew what his strengths were.

Steve blushed, but didn't try to deny it. "You do have fantastic arms," he admitted. "And hands. And eyes."

"My last ex thought my eyes were kinda creepy."

"Then your last ex was a damned idiot," Steve snapped, then shook his head as if to clear it. "Look, I've _thought_ about it, okay? I think about it. About... us, together, you and me. I think about you looking at me -- _looking_ , the way you do when you're taking something apart in your head, learning it, memorizing it -- and I get the best kind of shivers. I think about your hands on me, gentle and precise and sure, like they are on your bow.

"I think about your..." Steve's mouth thinned and twisted, his free hand waving as if it could catch the words he needed out of thin air. "The way you're always, you know, joking and clowning," Steve finally managed. "I probably could use some more of that."

"You say that, but then you yell at me when I joke on the comms," Clint pointed out. His voice was remarkably steady considering the way his innards were melting, like a piece of chocolate left on the sidewalk in July.

"Because it's the _middle_ of a _fight_ ," Steve said, throwing up his hand in half-exasperation even as the hand holding Clint's tightened reassuringly. "The rest of the time, I wish I could be even half so... relaxed and easy. And even when you're driving me crazy in the middle of a fight, trading those terrible puns with Tony or trying to wind Bucky and Nat up with a hit-count, you somehow always knock me out with how _good_ you are."

"World's greatest archer," Clint agreed, sing-songing the old tag, keeping his voice light.

"That's impressive, too," Steve said. "But it's not the bit that really grabs me. What catches my attention is the way you keep track of all of us, and make sure we're all covered, and make sure the civilians are being cleared. Off the field, too, I've noticed, you watch everyone, make sure they're keeping safe and healthy. You take care of the team. You _care_ , even when you don't want anyone to notice."

Breathing. Breathing was a thing that Clint was supposed to do.

Steve grinned, bashful. "And yeah, I think about your arms, too. Not gonna pretend that's not part of it. I think about the pull on that bow of yours and how I could actually _feel it_ when you tried to teach me to shoot, that one time. I think about how hard it would be to make you let go of something if you really wanted to hold onto it. I think about how those arms would feel, wrapped around me." The blush flared, then, painting Steve's whole face, and his eyes focused on the sidewalk ahead of them, his voice dropping so low it was nearly a whisper. "I think about those arms holding me down, when I don't want to have to hold myself up anymore."

Clint did not -- _did not_ \-- stumble over his own god damn feet in the middle of the sidewalk. He did _not_. It was a near thing, though.

Steve's little sidelong smirk said he'd noticed anyway. "So if you're going to keep insisting that you're just a dumb kid from Iowa who ran away to join the circus, I'm going to keep reminding you that I'm just a dumb kid from Brooklyn who ran away to join the army. We're not as different as you seem to think."

Clint laughed, soft and low, because what else could he do? He could think of a hundred reasons why he wasn't good enough for Steve -- but he already knew Steve wouldn't listen to a single one of them. Certainly not if they came from Clint. Might as well enjoy the ride.

Possibly even literally.

And god damn if that wasn't the best mental image ever.

Clint kept his eyes front, focused on the looming architecture of Avengers Tower, now only a block away. "Okay," he said. "Yeah. Dating. Okay."

Steve grinned, big enough for Clint to see it in his peripheral vision. "Good. So, since we're almost back home..."

That blush hadn't faded at all. Clint wondered, suddenly, how much experience Steve actually had, and how much of the evening and that speech had been carried on Steve's sheer stubborn bravado. He slanted a look sideways, catching the set angle of Steve's jaw. More than a hint of bravado, for sure, then. Clint rubbed his thumb across Steve's wrist. "My place is quieter," he suggested. Also, more likely to have supplies, but it probably wouldn't be terribly romantic to mention it. And romance was something that Steve apparently wanted.

"Your place it is," Steve agreed, and then fell silent.

In the elevator, Clint backed Steve against the wall before the door had completely shut, pushing his body against Steve's from chest to hip, pressing hard, and then delicately stealing the breath from Steve's lips with a series of barely-there kisses that traveled from one corner of Steve's mouth to the other.

Steve chased his mouth with each withdrawal with a breath of impatience, and Clint grinned. "No need to rush," he said. He nosed his way along Steve's jaw, licked just under Steve's ear. "We can make this last all night, if we want."

Steve let out another one of those moan-whimper-sigh noises as Clint nibbled at his throat. "Not -- _uhn_ \-- not sure I can, actually," he warned.

"Wanna see how close we can get, then," Clint shot back.

Steve sucked in as Clint bit down, dropping his head back. "God, yes," he breathed.

The elevator doors opened. Clint caught a glimpse of the front room in the mirrored wall of the elevator and pulled Steve in for a kiss as he backed into his apartment. "Don't look, god," he groaned into Steve's mouth. "I wasn't expecting company, it's a tragic mess."

"It's like no one can remember I was in the damn Army," Steve joked, but he obligingly kept his attention on Clint rather than the obstacle course of dirty laundry, video game cases, empty pizza boxes, and assorted mess.

Clint threaded the maze largely by memory, pulling Steve in his wake, until they'd reached the bedroom. Clint kicked the door shut and then pulled Steve toward the bed.

"Huh," Steve said, "I thought you'd go for the wall again."

Clint snorted. "Up against the wall is hot, but it's not very comfortable. Though" -- he pulled away to give Steve an appraising look -- "this goes on for a while, we are _so_ going to do it on a wall, because I bet you could hold me up without even breaking a sweat."

"Oh, _hell_ ," Steve groaned, "you can't just say stuff like that. I thought you wanted me to be able to last a while."

"Then distract me," Clint challenged, flopping down onto the bed and pulling Steve after him.

Steve landed with his arms braced to either side of Clint's head. He didn't say anything, just covered Clint's mouth with his own. Clint almost smirked, but then surrendered to the kiss, sweet and slow, almost languid. Steve didn't taste of beer any longer; didn't really taste like anything but _Steve_. Which was enough.

Clint threaded his fingers into Steve's short hair. He was momentarily distracted by wondering who'd taught Steve how to style his hair, because it was slightly tacky with product and he didn't think Steve would have worked that out on his own. It was probably Natasha, he decided. None of Steve's other usual SHIELD liaisons would have bothered.

 _Jesus fucking Christ_ , he thought to himself, _why the fuck are you thinking about this while you have Steve fucking Rogers' tongue in your mouth?_

 _Good point,_ he thought back at himself, and went back to the kissing. Kissing was good.

They were making out like teenagers, Clint realized after a while, frantic mouths and hands gripping each other's shoulders and arms, threading fingers together only to let go again a few seconds later, too impatient to simply hold on. They'd lost their shirts at some point and were lying on their sides, legs tangled and hips grinding mindlessly.

It seemed like a good time to kick things up another notch. Clint trailed his hand up Steve's thigh, dandled fingers across that hipbone, teasing, and then cupped Steve's ass, pulling their bodies more tightly together. Steve's breath hitched in surprise, and his muscles flinched and fluttered under Clint's touch.

"You okay?"

"Yes, good," Steve mumbled into Clint's neck, "very good. Just, uh, haven't done this much."

"Much, or at all?" Clint persisted, because Jesus fuck, if Steve had never done this before then... Then something. Clint didn't know what, but _something_.

" _Much_ ," Steve emphasized. "Couple times back... before." Then, as if sensing Clint's hesitation, he rolled onto his back with an exasperated huff. "Had a friend in art school, we traded handies a few times. And there was this French prostitute during the war."

Clint sat up in surprise. "You," he said, disbelieving, "had sex with a prostitute." He narrowed his eyes. "A _male_ prostitute. Like, for money." Steve tried the unimpressed Son-Just-Don't face, but Clint wasn't buying it. "Come on, there's definitely a story there."

After a moment, Steve sighed and shrugged. "The place called itself a bar but was really a cathouse. Bucky and I had a brief to give, so we came in late, and Dum-Dum and Dernier said they'd set it up for Bucky with one of the girls, already paid and all. They called it thanks for some shot or other that'd gotten them out of a tight spot, and it was something of a dare besides. And we'd been in the woods a long time, and--"

"I get it, I'm not judging, go on," Clint said eagerly. "Get to the point."

Steve threw his arm over his eyes. "Bucky went upstairs with this girl. Yvette. As soon as the door closed, the guys just fell all over themselves laughing, and eventually they started breathing again enough to tell me what was going on. They figured Buck would come charging down the stairs, all embarrassed and angry, you know, but there wasn't much I could do about it at that point, so... He was up there for a good while, actually, but it eventually played out just about like they expected, and they howled the whole time he was cussing them out.

"Bucky told me, not long after he and Tony got together, that he'd playacted the whole thing. But at the time, I felt sorry for Yvette. Er, Noel, as it turned out his name was, really. Anyway, it wasn't Noel's fault that my team was a bunch of hooligans, and I felt bad that they'd used him just to set up a prank. So I went back the next day to see him. Apologize, sorta. We ended up talking, and... well, you can probably figure out the rest on your own."

Clint was curious to know exactly what they'd done, but it was obvious that Steve was done sharing, so he just said, "Yeah, probably. So you really weren't kidding when you said you hadn't done this much."

Steve lifted his arm to look at Clint. "Nope. But really, it's no big deal, I mean, I've been doing a lot of reading, I know what's what."

Clint stifled the urge to snort with laughter. "No offense, Steve, but... what kind of reading?"

"Clint. I know how to use the internet, come on." Steve's expression was very earnest and just a hint disappointed, and it made Clint feel the tiniest bit panicked.

"Oh, god. Steve, if you--"

"I know where all the best leather daddy and bondage shops are in Manhattan, and what kind of lube is best for fisting -- and that you need an _awful_ lot of it --"

"Oh, Jesus. Steve, for fuck's sake--"

Steve burst into laughter.

Clint stared at him. Steve kept laughing.

"You unbelievable asshole," Clint said. Steve was still laughing. Clint leaned over and smacked his shoulder, hard. "You are _such_ a bastard."

"You should've seen your face, though," Steve giggled. "JARVIS, show Clint what his face looked like!"

"No, _don't_ , belay that, JARVIS, and also if you haven't already, turn off the damn cameras for the night! Jesus." Clint buried his head in his hands. "What the hell have I gotten into?"

Steve laced his hands behind his head, self-satisfied as a cat. "Hopefully something fun."

Clint eyed Steve's relaxed posture and slowed breathing, and wondered if Steve had interrupted them on purpose to slow things down a little. He was pretty sure Steve would never admit to it, either way. "I bet you can't even stop yourself," Clint said with a chuckle. "I should institute a troll tax. You would end up owing me so many blowjobs..."

"Hey now," Steve protested, though his eyes were dancing, "that seems a little steep."

"I dunno. I was pretty traumatized, there. How the hell do you know what a leather daddy is? Or fisting? Christ. I was trying to figure out how to make this fun and not too crazy and you start throwing around that shit!"

Steve freed a hand to slide it up the arm Clint was leaning on, following the contours of muscle with his eyes and fingers. "I know, I could tell. That's kind of why I did it. You looked like you were panicking at the idea of having to teach me how to have sex or whatever and I needed to break the tension. Yes, I'm fairly inexperienced, and you should know that, obviously. I'm glad you know that. But on the other hand, I'm a quick study and this body is a hell of a lot harder to damage than most anyone else's. So relax. It's supposed to be fun, not stressful."

Steve's fingers made their way up over Clint's shoulder, and Clint waited, just watching Steve's face as they followed the tendon of his neck, down the line of his jaw, and then traced his lower lip. "For instance," Steve said, quiet now and very nearly into the realm of shy, "apparently I owe you a blowjob."

Clint caught Steve's hand before it could roam any further. "Damn right you do. We'll get to it." Keeping his eyes on Steve's, Clint licked lightly up Steve's index finger, and then sucked the tip of it into his mouth, biting lightly at the pad.

Steve's eyes widened. "Oh gosh," he breathed.

It should've been cute and funny, that kiddie swearing, but instead, coupled with the surprised expression on Steve's face, it was arousing. Clint moved on to the next finger, and the next. Steve was entranced and obviously delighted. Clint gave himself a mental thumbs-up: hands were intimate without being intimidating.

"Did you know the hands, especially the fingers, are one of the most sensitive parts of the body?" Clint asked softly. He went back to the index and took the whole thing into his mouth, curling his tongue around it, sucking it in and letting it slide free only to suck it in again.

Steve's eyes were huge now, focus fixed unerringly on Clint's face. "Can I...?" he whispered.

Clint lifted an eyebrow but released Steve's hand, letting him resume control. Steve lightly traced his finger along Clint's tongue, and then held his breath and began fucking his finger in and out of Clint's mouth. Clint resumed sucking, pulling Steve's finger in faster, letting him feel the tug as he dragged it back out, and that made Steve start breathing again, a little faster than before. "God, Clint."

Clint tongued Steve's finger out of his mouth. "Your turn." He traced his own finger over Steve's lips.

Steve did not hesitate at all, and though Clint let him set his own pace for exploration, it wasn't long before Steve was enthusiastically sucking Clint's finger. Was finger-fellatio a word?

Didn't matter; Clint's fingertips were incredibly sensitive and Steve's tongue was apparently just as enhanced as the rest. Holy _fuck_ , Clint was in danger of shooting off and they hadn't even gotten their pants off yet. "Fast learner," he gasped. "Right."

Steve smirked and pulled Clint in for a kiss, then rolled them until Clint was lying on his back with Steve half on top of him. "Did I pass?" Steve murmured against Clint's mouth, toying with the buckle of Clint's belt. "Do I get to try the real thing now?"

And shit, if Clint hadn't _seen_ the way Steve's eyes had widened in surprise earlier, he never would have guessed that any of this was new. "Christ," he managed, "not sure I could stop you if I tried."

"Sure you could," Steve said, though he was already opening Clint's belt and starting to work on the buttons, faster one-handed than Clint sometimes was with two.

"Yeah, maybe, but I don't want to find out," Clint said. "Not stopping you, not at all."

"Such resounding enthusiasm," Steve said. He sat up and hooked his fingers under the band of Clint's jeans and shorts, but his eyes were on Clint's face. "'Not saying no' is definitely not on the list of approved methods of enthusiastic consent."

"God, you are _such_ a troll," Clint groaned, lifting his hips so Steve could work his clothes off. "I am really sure we've already covered that question, but if you need it again, Captain Consent, then fucking hell, yes, _please_ , put your damn mouth on me before I spontaneously combust."

Steve paused in the act of shucking the rest of his own clothes and laughed delightedly. It was worth every bit of aching delay, Clint thought, to see Steve so happy, teasing and joking as if he didn't have a care in the world. "Well, we can't have that," Steve drawled. He kicked the tangle of discarded clothes onto the floor, eyes sparkling with amusement and mischief, and then his mouth was closing around Clint's cock.

The wet heat sent rolls of near-painful pleasure echoing up into Clint's body. Then Steve took him deeper and started working out what to do with his tongue.

"Oh, _god_." Clint squeezed his eyes shut and started mentally listing types of bows and the best arrowheads for each, because otherwise he was going to lose his god damn mind, not to mention blow his load.

Clint threaded his fingers into Steve's hair, not trying to push or direct, just grounding, not that Steve seemed to be lacking any confidence now that he'd gotten the bit in his teeth.

So to speak.

Clint's fingernails raked lightly over Steve's scalp, and Steve let out a pleased hum, knocking a startled moan out of Clint, and suddenly he couldn't shut up. "Steve. So good, my god, that's so-- Christ, what the fuck, do that again. No, the-- oh, _god_ , yes. Steve. Please, please, yes, yes..."

He fought not to buck his hips, but he let himself pull on Steve's hair a little. Steve didn't seem to mind, and in fact hummed again. Clint whimpered desperately. "Steve, Steve, god, you need to-- to stop or I'm gonna. Gonna come, Steve. I mean it, if you don't--"

Steve's hands curled around Clint's hips and pinned him down, and, okay, message received. Clint let his head fall back. Let his hands clench into fists. Let his breathing stutter.

Let the orgasm roll over him like a scalding wave.

Clint looked up, panting, a few breaths later, to see Steve wiping his mouth on the back of his arm. "Sorry," Clint rasped. "Forgot to warn you about the taste."

"The internet," Steve said in that solemn tone that meant he was trolling again, "seems to be pretty evenly divided between those who think it's better than chocolate, and those who think it's only slightly less repulsive than raw sewage. Luckily, I had access to a ready supply of sample material."

Still working through the post-orgasmic haze, it took a few moments to process that. Then Clint's brain finally caught up and exploded with a mental image of Steve curiously licking his own come off his fingers after masturbating.

"Jesus. Fucking. Christ."

Steve grinned.

"You are a menace," Clint said. "God. If I hadn't _just_ come, that would've... _Nnng_." He pointed sternly at Steve. "Just for that, I want to see that sometime."

"Okay," Steve said, amused. He climbed up the bed and laid on his side, still watching Clint.

"I'm not kidding. Even if you dump me first thing in the morning, I get a free pass for that."

"Okay," Steve agreed again. "I'm not dumping you in the morning, though. Just for the record."

"You never know," Clint said. "Nat says my snoring is like the unholy mating of a chainsaw and a warthog's mating call."

"Army," Steve reminded him. "Really, really not going to top that."

"Is that a challenge?"

"The challenge here," Steve said, still looking amused, "is apparently convincing you to return the favor."

"Some of us are not enhanced metahumans," Clint grumbled, only half-seriously, "and need a minute to catch our breath after a mind-blowing orgasm."

Steve pinked and looked pleased. "It was good?"

"The _oh god_ s and _don't stop_ s didn't give you a general idea of my feelings on the matter?"

"There's a world of difference between 'good enough to get the job done' and 'mind-blowing'," Steve pointed out. "Unless you're exaggerating to make me feel better, of course."

"Nope," Clint said quickly. "Not even a little bit. Won't say I've _never_ had better, but your 'rank novice' attempt beat out the years of practice most people have."

Steve blushed harder. "I can hold my breath longer than most," he deflected, then shot Clint a look from under his eyelashes. "And apparently I had a good teacher."

"Flatterer. I didn't teach shit." Clint sat up, pushing Steve onto his back and straddling his hips. Clint ignored Steve's erection, still straining between them, and instead smoothed a path up Steve's torso, over his shoulders, and down his arms.

When he got to Steve's wrists, Clint traced the blue veins there with his thumbs thoughtfully. "You said something earlier," he mused, "about not wanting to hold yourself up."

Steve's eyes went wide. His mouth fell open, and he licked his lips briefly. His pulse, at neck and wrists, sped up. "I did say that," Steve admitted.

Clint smiled. "Is that reaction because you want it, or because you don't?"

Steve's gaze dropped to Clint's shoulders, then his chest, then back up to his eyes. "I'm not sure. A little of both."

"I couldn't hold you if you really wanted to get free," Clint reminded him. "There's nothing to be worried about."

"That'd probably hurt you, though. I don't want to hurt you."

"If you tell me to let go, I will," Clint promised. "I'm just pointing out that there's a failsafe. Pain and fear are not the point, though." Keeping his hands on Steve's wrists, he leaned down, sweeping his tongue through Steve's lips to taste the remnants of his own come, then biting gently on Steve's lip.

"The point," he murmured, working down to Steve's throat, "is release."

His fingers were too short, or more precisely, Steve's wrists were too thick, for Clint to completely encircle them, but it was more effective to simply lean on Steve's forearms, anyway. Clint adjusted his hold, then looked up at Steve, who was watching him intently. "I've got you," he promised.

Steve tugged lightly at each of his arms. Testing, Clint thought, the limits of his response. "All good?" Clint asked. "Ready?"

Steve drew a quick breath. "What are you going to do?"

Clint ducked in for a kiss, starting sweet and chaste and rapidly moving to filthy. "I'm going to tease you until you beg," he said, looking back into Steve's face. "And then I'm going to tease you some more, just for fun. Then I'm going to let you think you'll get to come, and right when you get to the edge, I'll back it down. I'll probably do that a few times, until you're sweating and shaking and on the verge of tears. When I do let you come, it's going to be a complete surprise. And because of that, when it hits, you're going to be totally defenseless. You're going to completely dissolve, if only for those few seconds."

Steve's eyes had grown wide as Clint talked, his mouth falling slack. He'd gone completely still, sinking into the thick mattress almost as if he was trying to get away.

More like... surrendering.

Clint leaned in again, keeping his eyes open. He didn't quite kiss Steve this time, just barely brushed his mouth across Steve's, flicked his tongue over Steve's lips.

"I think you would like that." Clint breathed the words into Steve's lax mouth.

Steve released the breath he'd been holding, and Clint's words tumbled over themselves to escape: "I would like that."

Clint left a row of hickeys along Steve's collarbones; by the time he got to the far left side of Steve's chest, the marks on the far right were already faded. Steve sighed happily with each, though, so Clint made another trail of them, just underneath, marching back the other way.

Steve's nipples were moderately sensitive. Clint sucked and bit, flicking his tongue against each small nub until it was purple with abuse, first the left and then the right. By the time he was done, Steve was writhing, squirming side to side and arching. Clint went back to the left side. "Clint," Steve whined.

Clint just smiled. "Wonder what a hickey would look like on your nipple," he mused.

Steve whimpered, and Clint scraped his tongue across the tender skin with a chuckle.

Steve's abs were too taut for a really satisfying hickey, so Clint contented himself with tracing those muscles with his tongue and nose. The closer he got to Steve's cock, purple and leaking, the more he tipped his head so each breath would ghost over that sensitive flesh.

The insides of Steve's elbows were ticklish, Clint discovered, but the sharply-defined vee of his hipbones were not. Kissing and licking along that line left Steve squirming and groaning.

By the time Clint's mouth touched Steve's cock, Steve was already begging, a steady stream of "please, Clint, _please_ ," and "god, I can't, it's too much" and "just touch me, already, you're killing me." He did not, Clint noted, suggest that Clint release him, or even begin to fight Clint's hold.

Clint he teased Steve's cock slowly, covering the hard, satiny flesh with kisses and licks, just barely scraping his teeth across the ridge, until Steve's begging took on a desperate tinge.

When he finally closed his lips around the head of Steve's cock, Steve shuddered in relief. But for an interminable time, the head was all that Clint allowed, despite Steve's frantic shifting and bucking. Clint explored every curve and fold. When he began probing the slit with mercilessly slow and gentle swipes, Steve switched from begging to cursing.

Clint chuckled, letting Steve feel the vibration, and then -- just for an instant -- slid down, engulfing the full length of Steve's cock. He held it for a moment, listening to Steve's increasingly ragged breathing, and then retreated again, nearly to where he'd started.

"Oh, god, Clint, fuck, you bastard, you _fucking_ bastard," Steve grated.

His arms still hadn't so much as twitched under Clint's hands, though, so Clint did it again, going even deeper this time, until Steve's cock slipped into Clint's throat, just a bit.

Steve choked on whatever curse he'd been spitting and started whimpering again, that brilliant whine/moan/sigh sound that had somehow become lodged in Clint's sternum. Steve's arms pulled just a little against Clint's grip, and Clint would have grinned if it had been possible.

Instead, he pulled back just enough to breathe and then began to slide up and down, fluttering his tongue. He ignored the steady stream of cursing and begging emerging from Steve's mouth and listened instead to their rhythm, and the hiss of air in and out of Steve's lungs.

It didn't take long to bring Steve to the edge -- and Clint pulled away entirely, not touching Steve anywhere aside from the hold at his wrists. Steve let out a frustrated whine. "I didn't think you were really gonna do that," Steve complained. "Oh, god, Clint, oh hell, you're going to kill me."

"No one's ever died of a little blueballs," Clint said, cheerful despite the rasp in his throat. "Don't be a baby. I'll get you there, I promise." He flicked his tongue against Steve's cock just to watch it jump, to hear Steve make that _sound_. "Eventually."

"Dammit, Clint," Steve started, but Clint swallowed him down again, derailing his train of thought.

Three times, Clint managed to push Steve right to the edge of orgasm and then drop him. By the third, Steve wasn't even looking up at Clint anymore, just rolling his head back and forth on the pillow, eyes squeezed tight. The muscles of his neck and arms were standing out, and perspiration had dampened his hair. He'd lost most of his words, too, apparently, and every recognizable word out of his mouth was either "please", "god", or "Clint".

Clint wondered exactly how long he could force Steve to dance on this knife's edge. Superhuman stamina meant -- probably a long damn time. But that probably should wait until they knew each other better, Clint decided. And they'd need better restraints for that, too, because Clint's hands were already aching. This time, when Clint swallowed Steve down, he didn't pull away when Steve's breath started to hitch. He could feel Steve tensing up, trying to anticipate the moment when Clint would pull away.

"Please, please, god, don't, please, let me, please," Steve babbled, his voice rising almost comically. "Clint, it's, it's, it's, oh hell, Clint--!"

Steve screamed as he came, the stream hitting the back of Clint's throat hard. Steve's whole body went rigid, arching like a bridge. Then he collapsed, loose like an overcooked noodle.

Clint swallowed through the aftershocks and then pulled away, lifting his hands from Steve's wrists, his own fingers stiff and numb. It was worth it, though, for the utterly blissed-out expression on Steve's face.

 _I did that,_ Clint thought, a hint of pride swelling in him. _I gave him that_.

He curled up against Steve's side, massaging feeling back into his fingers and watching Steve fondly, waiting for the endorphins to fade.

Finally, Steve let out a slow groan. "That was amazing," he mumbled. "I don't want to move. You're amazing, and also the devil. My boyfriend is the devil."

Clint laughed and tried not to squirm at the explosion of warmth that accompanied Steve's choice of words. "You're welcome, and you don't have to move if you don't want to."

Steve's arms shifted slowly, as if he'd forgotten how they worked, and then curled around Clint, tugging him closer. "Best date ever," he said lazily.

Clint laughed and pulled a sheet up over them. "And that was just drinks," he deadpanned. "Imagine what would happen if we went for burgers, or better yet, a steak dinner."

"Devil," Steve reiterated, but his body was still limp and relaxed. He blinked at Clint sleepily, his eyes sparking with a smile. "Nex' time," he slurred sleepily, "nex' time, I'm'a return the favor."

"Yeah?" A shiver of desire slithered down Clint's spine. How long could _he_ dance on the edge? Steve would take it as a personal challenge. "Looking forward to that," he admitted, kissing Steve's shoulder before using it as a pillow.

Steve's fingers combed idly through Clint's hair, trailing occasionally down his neck and across his shoulder. It was soothing, though it had been a long time since Clint had shared a bed. But Steve, he thought, Steve was nothing if not utterly trustworthy.

Steve's lazy caresses slowed and then stopped as he fell asleep. Clint didn't notice, though, already sleeping himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Edited 3/15 to add this to the M&T series (don't know how I missed it before!) and to move its proper first chapter over from "Turnabout".


End file.
